The 2nd Great War
by General.William.Fire-Born
Summary: The Civil War is over. Many have been lost, and more have been saved. A new Empire has arisen, but so has centuries old conflict. A general, his commanders, and his companion must either prepare Skyrim for another Great War, or prepare for a slaughter.
1. Chapter 1

(Hey guys! My name is William! I'm new to this site, but not new to fan fiction. I'd give a long introduction, but I'll save the ceremony for later, depending on how well of a response I get. I've been working on this fanfiction for a while, so for my first post on this story, I'll include the Prologue, the intro, and the first chapter. It's pretty long, but please take the time to read it. The coming updates won't be as long but I'll try to make them as good. Thanks!)

Prologue: 4th Era, 210, 5th of Frostfall

Legate Darvo frowned as he entered the library. Among the myriad shelves of history, lore, and magic lay the answer to a particularly vexing question, which had haunted him for more than a fortnight. More problematic than the question, however, was the location of the specific tome in which he suspected the answer lay. Tapping his lower lip and consumed by contemplation, he nearly overlooked the younger Legate buried in the pages of one of the Empire's newer tomes. Though he couldn't see the cover, he recognized the crisp New Empire print to be that of Haldir Light-Wand's "Empires: New and Old". Darvo couldn't say he agreed with every view the mage proposed in the accounts, but he couldn't deny their accuracy. For his part, Legate Phyrior seemed completely unaware of Darvo's presence as well.

"Evening, Legate. Brushing up on our history, are you?"

Phyrior looked up, a rapid fluttering of dark lashes the only indication of his surprise.

"Oh, why yes," he said, closing the book. "Actually, I was. It amazes me how much Skyrim has changed since the war ended." Folding his hands over the book's dark cover, his eyes grew distant in thought. Darvo knew the look well.

"Five years is a long time," Darvo said.

"Indeed," Phyrior said. "Still, to found an entirely new empire on the heels of civil war . . . well, had you asked me five years ago if I thought it wise or even possible, I would have laughed right to your face." Looking up, the man had a faint smile, which, by Phyrior's standard arsenal of expressions was as much as another man's belly laugh. "Obviously I would have been wrong."

Darvo brushed his fingers along the spine of several books piled alongside the seated Legate, taking the time to choose his words carefully.

"There was chaos," he said, his fingers coming to rest on a title he didn't bother reading. "After Ulfric was killed, Windhelm nearly tore itself apart. If not for William I dread to think what would have become of us."

"And yet he continues to let Elisif rule as High Queen."

"Yes," Darvo said carefully, watching the Legate with a keener eye than before.

"Do not misunderstand me," Phyrior said lightly, his voice one shade away from laughing. "I am loyal to the New Empire, of course. Only," he paused, inspecting some flawless aspect of the book's cover. "Just recently I heard the last of the Stormcloak heretics were recruited into the Legion instead of executed. I couldn't help but wonder just whose influence was behind such a soft-hearted-"

The sharp thunder of Darvo's fist slamming into the legate's reading table echoed in the empty library, ending his words before he could say something Darvo would ensure he regretted. "I would not entertain such dangerous lines of thought if I were you," he said, his voice deceptively soft. "Whether Elisif or William, the decision was made, and it is not your place, or mine, to question it." Straightening, he looked down at the other man, one side of his face fighting the urge to curl in a disdainful sneer. "Do I make myself clear, Legate?"

"Oh, more than crystal," Phyrior said, his tone somewhere between condescending acquiescence and patronizing apology.

Darvo let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and relaxed his arm. He wasn't sure what connections Phyrior had within the Empire, but he figured they had to be powerful to keep him safe, or he'd have already had that pretty-boy face of his rearranged into something with more "character" by now.

An unobtrusive cough brought Darvo's attention to the entryway behind him.

"Kareturek, what is it?" Darvo asked, a forced warmth keeping his tone from expressing the exhaustion he felt.

The legate stepped forward, a crisp piece of parchment, folded and sealed, in his hand. Handing it to Darvo, the man nodded his greeting to Phyrior and stood back with hands clasped before him.

The seal of clan Fire-Born crackled as Darvo broke the wax away from the paper. He opened the missive as he would a chest, anticipating the thrill of seeing the General's words with his own eyes once more.

The General's script was neat and without elegance, but its simplicity spoke of his quick mind and even quicker schedule.

"Legates;

Your presence is required in the War Room on the 10th of Frostfall.

Reports from our Northern border indicate an increase in Thalmor naval activity. Requests for aid have been dispatched to High Rock and Hammerfell, but their arrival may not be swift enough to discourage a naval strike, or worse. Increase all patrols, border and city, immediately.

I look forward to your report five days hence.

- General William Fire-Born"

Darvo passed the missive to Phyrior before turning his attention to Kareturek.

"See to it the all patrols are increased to the North immediately. Thalmor have been spotted and the General won't have us caught with our leggings down. Any man with a moment to gamble is a man with time to patrol. You're dismissed, Kareturek."

The legate nodded in response and departed with never a word spoken. Darvo supposed that was only natural. Kareturek had been at Helgen. In addition to seeing the devastation of Alduin first-hand, he had also suffered the dragon's fury. Though he escaped without any sign of outward damage - beyond what could be expected of a civil skirmish under dragon fire -, he had inhaled the fire-burnt air of the dragon's Thu'um. He could speak, but it was not without difficulty and discomfort.

"To the War Room is it?" Phyrior set the note on the table as he might a delicate ice sculpture, or an unpleasant creature he didn't quite trust.

"You read the same missive I did," Darvo said. Already he could feel his blood pressure rising.

"Since moving into the Dragonspire, the General hasn't taken many visitors. It should be quite interesting, don't you think?" Phyrior lifted his pale gaze to meet Darvo's and Darvo felt the strange, unspoken challenge. Phyrior was pushing him intentionally.

"Yes," Darvo said, meeting Phyrior's gaze unblinking. "It should be very interesting. Though, if you'll excuse me, it means I have some arrangements to make. I believe you will have some matters in need of tending as well?" It wasn't a question.

Phyrior gave his wan little smile and spread his hands expansively across the table. "But of course. I wouldn't miss a meeting in the War Room for all the wine in Cyrodiil."

He wanted to smash the man's face into the New Empire books Phyrior mocked with his very presence, but he didn't have time to deal with the consequences that might follow such a rash act. Instead, he gave a curt nod and turned on his heel. As he passed from the library to the corridor, all thought of the question to which he'd originally sought an answer vanished, replaced by the ordered lists of what needed tending before his meeting with the General. For all that Phyrior was no doubt disrespecting both the General and the concept of the War Room with his comment, Darvo couldn't deny his agreement; it would be the most interesting day of his life.

Intro:  
>The year is 210 of the 4th Era. The Civil War in Skyrim has been over for some time now, with Ulfric dead. But things have taken a major change. The Jarls, believed to be meeting for a Moot to determine the new High King or Queen, actually seceded from the Empire, with Emperor Titus Mede II's permission. The New High Queen, Elisf the Fair, has formed an alliance with the provinces High Rock and Hammerfell, which also seceded from the Old Empire, which is now just Cyrodil and its few holds in southern Morrowind, leaving it all but destroyed. The New Empire grew, and the Aldmeri Dominion grew ever fearful of losing power. And their fear is well placed. On the 21st of Frostfall of 210, tensions reached a breaking point when a high-ranking Thalmor mage's convoy was attacked and the agent was killed, but not before being dragged through the streets by New Empire radicals. The Thalmor respond with the kidnapping of 8 New Empire Legates and executing them, returning the heads to New Winterhold, the now capital of Skyrim and the New Empire, rebuilt as a joint effort between the New Empire and the College of Winterhold. It now towers over Skyrim as a point of defiance. A new stone city, built by the best masons and carpenters in Tamriel, is all but dwarfed by the mighty Elderblood Keep, the massive castle which centers around the Dragonspire, an ancient stone tower said to date back to the Dragon War Era, which is mysteriously the same size of the ancient White-Gold Tower in Cyrodiil.<p>

The New Empire has already begun to face its initial challenges with the Thalmor threat on the horizon. One war that ravaged the land just ended, and Skyrim wasn't ready for another war, especially with those High Elven Thalmor and their magical abilities, superseding any human's abilities. A storm was brewing, and General William Fire-Born wasn't about to go without a fight.

Chapter 1: The War Room.

A distressed General William Fire-Born stood over a large wooden table covered completely in maps and lines drawn himself. They made the maps look like a bloodstained piece of parchment with some black lines filling in the gaps. He'd seen things most soldiers dreamed of seeing, and things no mortal should ever see. And now, on the verge of a new Great War, he wondered what got him here, amongst the horrendous bloodbaths of his own comrades, by his own neighbor's sword. The Civil War, the horrible conflict which pitted families against families, brothers and brothers, Jarls and citizens. It nearly ripped Skyrim by its seams, but after the Battle of Windhelm, where Tullius, Legate Rikke, whom he had become...fairly fond of, and another Legate, stormed the beautiful Castle of Kings, and ripped Ulfric into Oblivion. He'll never forget the terrible Shout he heard from the mysterious Legate who accompanied them. William spent the years between trying to determine its secrets, and believed he may just have them now.

His thoughts, clouded and scrambling as they may be, were still focused on the damn Thalmor, who were creeping slowly on the Dawnstar coastline, in those damn ships of theirs. They've been a thorn in William's side for quite some time now ever since the War ended. Now that they were encroaching on the New Empire border. William, the most powerful man in the New Empire, seemingly baffled by a few elves. But fortunately, he wasn't alone in his fight.

span style="background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-size: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial;"His advisor, a beautiful Wood Elf named Holo, was always by his side, and never once doubted his leadership, and not to mention, was the closest person to the General alive. Aside from being his advisor, she was also his housecarl, steward, and best friend as well. His life was in her hands, and that didn't bother him one bit./span

On that note, Holo just happened to walk into the War Room, and slowly marched toward the General, but not militarily, more over quietly and secretive, as if she didn't want the General to hear her entering. She slowly walked against the far wall.

His highest ranking officials, were to be making their way to the Room as well:

Admiral Lairah Ruuz, the head of the New Imperial Navy, was fairly new to her position, albeit still competent. It was a bit of a confusing tale though, considering she was Redguard, and that her homeland was a desert. She had spent most of her life on the sea, and had captured the port areas of Dawnstar and Old Winterhold. After the war, upon High Queen Elisif's request, General William promoted her to Admiral of the New Imperial Navy.

Ildori Redorn, Head Imperial Battlemage, a Dunmer mage who at one point was Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, had only served a few years with General Fire-Born, and was a mysterious fellow. He, like Admiral Ruuz, was given his position upon request of Queen Elisif.

Legate Alteri Darvo of Whiterun, one of his most competent and loyal leaders, had served him well since the Civil War. He was a Dark Elf, who despite being 80, looked 19 due to Vampirism. He had an attitude of loyalty and trust around him, and had fought in almost every major battle in the Skyrim Civil War, including the battles of Whiterun and Windhelm.

Legate Kareturek of Solitude, a Orc of few words but many actions, and for good reason. Like mentioned, he was at Helgen, where Alduin the World-Eater attacked. He wasn't burned; directly anyway. While fighting, he breathed in the burnt air which singed his lungs, and made speech difficult. Otherwise, he was an excellent fighter, and was as loyal to William as his own race.

And finally, Legate Phyrior, a pompous High Elf-Redguard who had served Tullius and Elisif like a slave, and was in turn made Legate of Windhelm. His attitude has made him a thorn in Darvo's side. His actions in the War threw him up the ranks to where he is today. He not only took Fort Dunstad by himself, he also managed to help shut down Stormcloak rebellions across the nation.

Holo stalked across the room, still following the bound leather spines of the tomes lining the shelves. The General never likes to be disturbed while focused, and Holo didn't dare try to change that precedent. As she edged close and closer, more and more of the General's physique became observable. William was a man of almost perfect physical condition. His arms were quick and strong, his legs long, tall, fast, and powerful. His chest was like a stone wall, immovable and even more intimidating. His face was almost devoid of imperfections, minus the scar that he had. It stretched from his eye to his upper lip.

He had obtained it during the Civil War while taking a Stormcloak fort. He and a Stormcloak soldier had crossed blades, and William began to lose the duel the two had become engaged in. William's block with his blade slipped, and the Stormcloak's blade inches further and further towards his face, making a dangerous move for his eye. Faced with the choice of blindness or deformation, William lowered his blade slightly, causing the enemy steel to gouge into the flesh below his eye socket. The blade dug from there to his lip, after which William parried the blade away with a quick and sudden movement. Stunned, bleeding and enraged, and quite literally seeing red, William plunged his cold, hardened steel blade deep into the Stormcloak's chest, ripping through the cuirass like parchment, imbuing the blade with his blood. In a fury of rage and adrenaline, William twisted the blade, drilling a 6 inch diameter hole into the soldiers chest. When he retracted the blade, William stepped back from his work, the battle behind him either raging or stopped to look in awe. He couldn't tell either way. He had ripped the man's heart from his chest, the organ slowly and audibly slipping from the blade's tip. The man crumpled to the ground, dead before his helmet hit the ground. William's blade felt hot in his hand, still dripping with cold, red Nordic blood. He had slain dozens of Stormcloaks before, but never had he seen or acted like this before.

When he finally returned to reality, he turned around, expecting a fight. But what he got was totally different. His squadron had the Stormcloaks subdued, weapons lying on the ground, the men trembling in fear. William was in awe. Then he had an idea. He turned to face the man he had just brutally slaughtered. When he faced his crumpled and already decaying form, the first thing he saw was the signature wolf pelt helm of a Stormcloak commander. The fur was bloodstained and thrashed, but it was still intact enough to be recognized for its uniqueness. William, unbeknown to him at the time, had just killed the commander of the fort with a simple thrust and twist. Remembering his power, his blade, and his duty, William faced the remaining rebels. He had a choice: follow his orders and execute the remaining defenders, or maintain his humanity and sanity and take the rebels captive. William raised his sword slightly, conflicted about his dilemma. After a long soul searching, he made his decision. He raised his blade, and with the speed of a dragon's wing and power of a Daedric prince, he sliced the ropes binding the soldiers wrists in two, the rope fibers fluttered apart harmlessly and the rebels stared thankfully but fearfully into his eyes. William had spared them; a precedent he had set that would guide his life from the on.

Holo continued along the shelves, slowly and silently following the new wooden frames surrounding hundreds and hundreds of tomes, ranging from 1st Era reprints to New Empire guides and textbooks. William was such an enthusiast for knowledge. He never could seem to get enough of the vast and impressive limits of the information he had at his fingertips. Holo never understood the General's thirst, one thing amongst many she didn't yet understand.

She was suddenly and violently brought back to reality by an iron dagger whizzing over her head and slicing off a single hair, the dagger embedding itself to the hilt into the support beam of one of the shelves. Holo, with the grace of a swan and fury of a hagraven, drew her sword, and turned to face the threat. All she was met by, though, was the smiling face of General William Fire-Born, a face few mortals have seen and lived to tell about.

"You are a master of stealth, Holo. But even you cannot sneak up on me."

His powerful and leading voice almost made the room shudder in fear and respect.

"I'm sorry William. I'll be more careful next time not to disturb you."

In her voice was a weird mixture of respect, humility, and submissiveness William was not used to.

"Are you OK Holo? You seem...off."

"I'm fine. Really."

William did not know what to say, instead he just nodded and motioned for her to join him at his war table, turning his back to her once again, and leaning on the table as he was earlier.

Spread across the old, ancient, wooden table top was an assortment of military and government documents, maps both old and new, field reports from patrols, and finally, in the upper left hand, laid 2 piles of painted wooden figurines. One pile was golden, crafted like a small sword, Elven in shape, and just as menacing. The other was full of red shields, resembling an Old Imperial shield, but bearing the insignia of the New Empire. When Holo took a closer look, she noticed that more of the delicate but intimidating pieces were placed on some of the maps. A few seemed random, but others seemed meticulously placed, as if recreating or anticipating a battle that may never come.

"What are these figures, General?" Holo asked, intrigued by their craftsmanship and intricate design.

"Movements." He replied quickly, as if not wanting to reveal too much to Holo. This was odd, considering that everything William knew, Holo knew as well. But this was different; possibly a surprise or an omen, Holo couldn't determine which.

"Of what? Men? Mer? Daedra? Dragons?" Holo asked impatiently, wanting an answer to her question.

Before William could answer, one of his guardsmen approached him, and whispered something in his ear, followed by several missives.

"3 Legates, Admiral Ruuz, and Commander Redorn are here, claiming to be upon your request. I've collected their entry missives, and have brought them to you to be checked for authenticity." The guard said quietly to the General. The General, with his admirable respect for those even extremely below him, nodded, and motioned with a swift move of his hand for the guard to give him the missives. Taking each piece of parchment like it was purse of Septims, he carefully opened each one, taking extreme caution to not damage the fine print in any way. The General always tried humble himself, but even he had to admit his writing was far above average. As he checked each missive for forgery, he prepared himself to present the current status of relations with the Dominion. This, he reasoned, would be quite a task, considering 4 of his top level staff were all Mer. Did he dare think of the repercussions of presenting the idea of war against their own kind, and risk a coup? William tended to follow his gut, but it had got him in trouble before.

As the General finished reading the missives, he handed each one back to the soldier, who stood attentively and respectfully, as if the man in front of him was a Divine incarnate. This type of admiration was normal for a man of his status, but the General never could get used to it.

"Thank you Auxillary. You may let them in."

The soldier slowly turned away, not wanting to take his eyes off the General. He fumbled around for the door, and finally managed to undo the lock, and slowly opened the door, allowing the entrance of the most powerful people in the New Empire. First entered the Legates: Darvo, Kareturek, and Phyrior. The three walked like an ensemble of power, ready to strike down anyone in their path. Their ceremonial armour suits, embroidered with silver rivets and blood red sections of silk, only exemplified their excellence further, but still maintaining a level of humility about them. They walked with a gait of pride, wanting to appear as strong as they could to the General. With no attention to anything but their places, the Legates took a seat next to the large round table, and awaited the General to speak. Admiral Ruuz and Commander Redorn followed suit right behind, a similar gait in their stride. Their ceremonial uniforms, unlike the Legates, were robes of red and grey silk, with stripes of blue on the arms. They boasted an air of intellect and wisdom that radiated from them like a robe of fire resistance. Even the very air they breathed shimmered like gold on a bright light. They too, took their seats, which were even closer to the General than the Legates. Holo finally took her seat directly to the right of the General, and the meeting began.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The General's Meeting

The General stood at the head of the large wooden table, attempting to make eye contact with the other leaders in the room. They all expected a well thought out, elegant, and powerful response to their reports, and he intended to give them no less. His mind raced quickly, praying secretly to Talos that he wouldn't be forced of hand into war. The General swallowed deeply, and began.

"Ladies and gentlemen. Leaders of the New Imperial Legion. I have brought you here requesting reports of your increased border patrols in response to the increasing Thalmor threat. I understand that not all hold have been ordered to increase patrols. I only ordered this for your areas because I do not want the people getting scared of increased Legion presence in their daily lives. We can do more with sweet rolls than we can with bowls of salt. Legate Darvo, I believe you are first."

And with that, the General sat, crossed his arms, and awaited patiently the report of the Legate.

Darvo rose pridefully but with a little hesitation, or perhaps nervousness. He gathered his multitudes of papers, reports, and maps, and began his presentation.

"Thank you, General Fire-Born. Legates, Commander, Admiral. Upon the General's request, all inland patrols have been doubled in the recent days, and reports of Thalmor scouts have been received from Riften, Falkreath, and Markarth. After attempted arrest and detainment under the suspicion of spying, the scouts violently resisted, and were dispatched quickly with extreme prejudice, despite some escaping over the border to Cyrodiil, where they could not be engaged further due to our pact with the Old Empire."

The Legate paused a moment to catch his breath and gather his thoughts as well.

"Upon recovery of the bodies of the slain scouts, a missive detailing orders from Thalmor headquarters indicates that they were ordered to obtain information on various military aspects of the New Empire, including guard patterns, shift changes, number of guards, and suspected ability of the guard. We believe that the Thalmor are using the ancient White-Gold Concordat, and perverting it to use Cyrodiil as a staging ground for subversive activities within our borders, which may lead to a possible invasion. Attempts to contact the Old Empire for confirmation of these suspicions have been fruitless, and no replies have been received. That concludes the report from my division."

And with that, the Legate returned to his seat, seeming to be pleased with his performance. He turned his eyes to the General, seeking a gaze of approval. But the General was staring past him, seemingly out of focus. Suddenly, the General snapped back to reality.

"Thank you Legate. That information is very important to our cause, and we will act upon it when we have compiled enough intelligence to mount a stronger defense or possibly a counter-offensive. Legate Phyrior, your report from the East?"

Phyrior, with is seemingly youthful energy and cockiness, bounded to his feet, and began his report.

"Thank you, General. Unlike my comrades to the south, border activity with Morrowind has remained constant, with no major changes in Thalmor activity, although there has been an increase in immigration. Immigration from Morrowind has been put on tighter restrictions as a precaution, but nothing is expected to come of it. I recommend that my resources being allocated somewhere more useful, such as counter-spying or something of the sort. Immigration is a joke, and-"

Before he could finish, the General spoke up.

"Pardon me Legate. But immigration and acceptance of outsiders is the foundation of our Empire. Are you seriously questioning the value of a position you have been given? A place the High Queen herself requested you be given? That's borderline treason, Legate."

That statement, along with the deathly gaze that the General gave him, made Phyrior do a complete 180, and the now terrified and humbled Legate spoke with the softness, or possibly defeat, of a surrendering soldier.

"No...no sir. Not at all. I apologize sir. To conclude, I report that activity in the East has not changed, but I will report any changes as soon as I am aware, sir."

And with that, the Legate quickly sat, nearly falling out of his chair. A minute smile danced across Darvo's face. It felt good to see him put in his place. But as he studied Phyrior, he noticed the hint of a unique emotion on his face. Was it embarrassment, or resentment? Darvo couldn't figure which, or even tell a difference….

The General motioned to Legate Kareturek to begin his presentation next. He prepared himself, attempting to dig up any ability to speak that he could, but even that was small.

"After increasing patrols along the High Rock and Hammerfell borders, guards for both the New Empire and our neighboring allies have reported increased number of caravans hailing from the Summerset Isles and other Thalmor controlled holds have increased dramatically, but no violent incidents have occurred. Investigations on these caravans-"

Kareturek paused suddenly to regain his strength, this effort at speaking taking a visible toll on his body.

"Investigations on these caravans have recovered shipments of valuable gems, useful ores, weapons, and other supplies normally consistent with military caravans. The contents of these caravans were seized, but the proprietors were allowed to return to their respective homelands. These caravans, while not an open act of war, should recommend further investigation."

And with that, Kareturek sat down. He motioned for a guard to approach him, and once the guard did, the Legate whispered something in his ear, and the guard nodded quickly, rushing out the door. The whole room had stopped for this interruption, but eventually returned to meeting status.

"And with that," the General continued, "we shall resume reports. Admiral Ruuz, I await your status, being that your sector worries me the most." The General relaxed slightly, interlocking his fingers and resting his elbows on his knees. The Admiral slowly rose from her seat, preparing to give the most important report of the meeting. She seemed to shake, a trait not common of Admiral Ruuz, as she rose.

"Thank you sir. My ships have increased their patrol area size, especially to the north. Thalmor ships, while not actively engaging our fleets, have gotten dangerously close to our waters, tempting retaliatory action on our part. While we are more than capable of defending our borders from a naval strike, a full force invasion from the sea may prove out defenses inadequate. Our ships are being retrofitted with fire-ball rounds, and our coastal defenses are currently being upgraded to fire more shells per shot, but we are still heavily outgunned. I suggest studies into Dwarven metal cannon technology, to further our firepower. Also, salvaged Elven ships have returned plans of massive warships on a scale we could not imagine before. It is recommended that these plans should be further studied, and a prototype ship be built before the end of the year. Thank you."

The Admiral returned to her seat, seemingly satisfied. The General, contemplating her idea, stood up to conclude the meeting, but not before he gave his speech, that none of them knew about.

"Thank you Admiral. I suggest turning your report over to Commander Redorn for further study."

The General paused to collect himself. Before he spoke though, he rose his head and motioned for the guards by the doors to excuse themselves to the exterior of the room. Quickly and efficiently, the soldiers showed themselves out, the doors slamming behind them.

"Comrades, we face a threat of epic proportions. The Dominion all but destroyed the Old Empire in the last Great War, and I fear we are on the verge of another. But we are strong. We must choose. Will we fight, or will we stand down? Will we be like Emperor Titus Mede II, rest his soul in Sovengarde, and submit to the Thalmor threat. Or like the virtuous but misguided Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak and fight for our values? This is the question that need to be answered, and I'm not going to stand idly by while my people are under the looming threat of invasion. I understand many of you are Mer, so this conflict must cause much turmoil in your minds. Do you stay loyal to your kind, or loyal to your cause? This is the choice you must make. I do not ask for you to kill your kind, but I ask only that you do what is needed to protect the Empire. We are the new dawn of an age that Akatosh has divined upon us."

The General paused. What he was about to say next would either make the New Empire the most powerful military ever, or bring his downfall.

He began again.

"My friends…"

This phrase was one never used by the General, and the officials in the room were taken a little aback, not expecting their commander to be so informal.

"Many years ago, the Battle of Windhelm was raged for control of the rebel stronghold and to end the bloody civil war which took the lives of thousands. Near the end of this battle, myself, the General emeritus Tullius, the late Legate Rikke, and another Legate, whose identity I've yet to discover, stormed the Castle Of Kings. Ulfric Stormcloack, learned in the Voice, met us immediately with a powerful blast of the Voice, blowing us against the walls. Well, all but one. That unknown Legate, he…stood fast in that wave. Barely even phased, the Legate unleashed his own voice, practically flying like a dragon toward Ulfric. His sword glowed like Atherius, and was faster than the wind beneath Alduin's wings. But Ulfric met him blow for blow, his steel sword clanging against the Legate's unusual dragonbone sword. As they went at it, I recovered, and stumbled over to General Tullius. He was kneeling, and breathing heavily. I tried to talk to him, but he didn't respond. And then I heard it. The mystery Legate unleashed another Shout; one I had never even heard existed. It filled me with a new power, a new amount of energy, and a new drive to fight. My sword felt like a feather in my hand, and my armor glowed with a golden shimmer. My vision heightened, my ears became more sensitive, and my strength doubled. All that happened next was a blur. My arms moved like I didn't control them. I slashed through the armor of Galmor Stone-Fist, who tried to keep alive from my fury. When he raised his gauntlets to protect himself, I slashed at them and broke the plating. When he raised his Warhammer to protect his head, I sliced the wooden handle in half. I shoved my blade deep into his chest, and ripped upwards, splitting him in half from chest to his head. When I turned, the Legate had subdued Ulfric. Tullius and Rikke had regained their strength, and each held their swords at arms-length, the tips holding in front of Ulfric's throat. They looked ready to strike, but reserved at the same time…"

The General paused. The Legates seemed interested, but worried too.

"After we dealt with Ulfric, I tried to find that Legate again, but he had disappeared. I wanted to know the power he had brought to my body. That Shout; I strived for it. And now, my comrades, I have studied years upon years, consulting with the greatest minds of the Voice that live. I have found the shout. The Leader's Shout."

The General took a step back, and walked to the door. Opening the grandiose door and beckoning for a guard to enter inside, the General smoothly placed his hand upon the soldier's back, pulling him in like a bird pulls in its child. He guided the soldier, a young male Nord, to the head table, chatting with him along the way.

"What's your name son?" Asked the General.

"Quaestor Jorn Ice-Blood, sir." The young soldier seemed to shake in his armor.

"Jorn, what would you do if I told you that you would kill a Dremora?" The General's question made the commanders curious, and a little worried for the young blood.

"Sir?" The soldier seemed even more afraid than before.

"Stand there, son. Draw your sword, and trust me." The General guided the young Nord to a spot just adjacent to the table.

"Commander Redorn?"

The Commander jumped to his feet, quick to meet the General's question.

"Yes sir?!" The Commander seemed eager.

"How is your skill at summoning?"

"I've studied it, but not yet perfected it."

The General thought for a minute.

"Summon a Dremora Lord for me, and free him from his oath of service to you."

The Commander froze. He had never been given an order like this. But he wasn't about to disobey the General. He prepared his spell, drawing all his might. He cast a dark sphere infront of the soldier, and a Dremora, black like the night and red like the fires of Oblivion, stepped out of the portal, a greatsword that would destroy the mightiest of mortals upon his back. His fiery but soulless eye terrified the young soldier, as they burned into him with the fires of Mehrune's Dagon himself.

"Thank you, Commander." The General said. The smile he held only frightened the young man more.

Then, the General's face changed. A look stoned his face, a look of drive and determination. He breathed in deep, and let out a deep, booming sound.

"UTH MUL GRAH!" He shouted at the young man. A visible golden flame burst from the General's mouth. The Dragonspire shook with power, and the young man was flattened on his back. Worried that the boy had been killed, Legate Darvo jumped out of his seat and rushed to his side. Upon reaching him, the Legate placed his hand upon the boy's neck. He had a pulse. And it was getting stronger.

And stronger.

And stronger.

And stronger.

And then, in one fluid motion, the soldier jumped to his feet, nearly bowling over the Legate in the process. A fire burned in the man's eyes, hotter than any dragon's flame that ever burned. His sword, a steel work of home-craftsmanship, glowed like Merida's Dawnbreaker. This new appearance enraged the Daedra, who immediately roared in return, and drew his own greartsword, charging the young man. Every Legate in the room jumped to their feet and drew their swords, preparing for a battle. But the General silenced them, motioning for everyone to sit down. The young man counter-charged, and the two met, swords clanging against each other like thunder. The Daedra was fast; but the new soldier was faster. His swings flew like a swarm of a million bees, and he nearly became a blur. As he sliced faster and faster, the Daedra moved slower and slower. Finally, in a flurry of a thousand swings in less than a minute, the battle stopped. Both the Nord and the Daedra were motionless, standing facing each other. Then, suddenly and quickly, the Dremora disintegrated into millions of particles, each one cut by the sword of the young man. A demonic smoke emanated from the pile of ash-like dust, and then all was quiet. The young soldier, now in return of control, collapsed to the floor, his sword clanging to the ground. Two medics charged in, grabbing the soldier by the arms and the legs, carrying him out of the room. His sword remained on the ground, dripping with the black blood of the Dremora. William walked slowly over, and gripped the blade by the handle, holding it for all the leaders to see.

"This sword just massacred a Daedra with ease. A steel sword, cutting through the evilest of armors. If you do not believe this power, please draw your own sword and prove me otherwise."

No-one dared to move, fearful of the consequences that would follow.

The General motioned for everyone to sit: an order had never been followed so quickly.

The General walked back over to the round wooden table, laying the sword on the table, placing both hands on it, allowing it to support all of his mighty weight.

"This…power, my colleagues. This could be the deciding factor between whether we would survive…or whether we would thrive."

The General zoned out, looking into the realms of Atherius beyond. He had brought a power that would change warfare. Forever.

The General snapped into consciousness once more. "Legates, Commander, Admiral. I, General William Fire-Born, order a full inventory and restock of war supplies. All weapons need to be refined, rebuilt, reshaped, whatever it takes. I want full preparations for an attack. Commander Redorn, I want you and Admiral Ruuz to work side by side with the scholars of the College to get a prototype of that Dwemer ship by the 1st of Morning Star. You are all dismissed." The General stood up straight, hands clasped behind his back.

Slowly yet swiftly, every Legate stood and filed out in rank, saluting the General as they passed. Each couldn't take their eyes off the pile of black, simmering, evil ash that lay where the Dremora once did. The Commander and the Admiral followed suit, also eyeing the pile as they passed. After they had left, Holo began to rise. As she passed, she placed a gentle but firm hand on the General's arm. Her eyes met his, and her eyes showed a level of concern and care that rarely showed. She slowly left go, her eyes dropping to the floor as she exited. The General had just started a series of events that could not be stopped.


End file.
